4 Times Sherlock and John slept together
by Femke S
Summary: And 1 time it wasn't as 'just friends'. {FINISHING MY OTHER STORY FIRST THEN UPDATING THIS. THIS WILL BE FINISHED.}
1. No bed

**Author's notes: **Good evening everyone! So it's my friend Sophie's birthday really soon so I decided to write a short fanfiction for her! Happy early birthday Sophie, I hope you enjoy this! This chapter is corrected by the wonderful Hannah, yamsy on Tumblr. Go check her out!

The maker of the fan art on the cover is the wonderful inchells on Tumblr.

Also since the holidays are coming soon and I'll have a bit more free time** I'm taking requests!  
**Just send me a request in a PM or on my Tumblr and I'll decide if I'm able to realise it!

I'll first finish my other story Damn my leg (Haven't read it yet? Go check that out as well!) and this story.

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I just use them for my story.**

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Chapter 1

John came home after a hard day at work. Sarah had gone home ill around 10 AM asking John if he could take over her shift, so he ended up examining 28 people from 9 AM till 6 PM.

He was completely exhausted.

Weary, worn-out, drained, bushed, all-in, dead beat, sleepy, drowsy, fatigued and shattered.

The doctor hung up his coat, looked at his watch with a sigh and gazed around to search for Sherlock.

Not finding him in the lounge he thought the detective must have gone out again.

Lazily he went into the kitchen, quickly made some soup and sat down in his chair for a moment. He drank his soup quietly and read the paper.

After calming down from the busy day he stood up and went to the bathroom to shower.

30 minutes later the blogger, totally relaxed and clean, slowly made it to his room, opened the door and let his jaw drop open.

His bed was totally deconstructed. Every piece was laid over the floor, some of the pieces even broken.

Sherlock.

Oh, he would kill him when he got home. He would bloody kill him and throw him off a building.

His bed, the only thought that had dragged him through the day, was now gone.

And it was absolutely 100% Sherlock's fault.

He went back down, anger taking over him, sat in his chair and waited for Sherlock to come home.

Not even 5 minutes later Sherlock dashed in, obviously panicked at the sight of John sitting in his chair. He tried to avoid the gaze of the ex-army doctor, now boiling hot with anger.

Sherlock's hand moved towards the back of his neck and scratched it.

"Well erm… seen as you probably have seen... John I erm…" Sherlock lowered his voice into a whisper, "I might have erm… broken your bed." He looked like a child confessing that it had just eaten all the sweets in the cupboard.

John just looked at Sherlock.

"BROKEN?! SHERLOCK I HAVE NO BED ANYMORE!"

The detective came a bit closer a hand in front of him in defense.

"Look John I know you're angry…"

"I have had a really busy day Sherlock, only the thought of being able to sleep at the end of it kept me going through the day and I come home to see that my bed is gone!"

"Look, you can sleep on the sofa…"

"You bloody know that's bad for my shoulder! I'm sleeping in your bed tonight!"

"I haven't had sleep in 5 days, John, I'm tired as well!"

"Then you sleep on the fucking sofa, Sherlock!"

"But… it isn't as soft as my bed…"

"That's your problem!" John stood up and headed towards Sherlock's room.

"But I'm tired!" Sherlock yelled confused.

"You've gone 5 days without it surely you can wait another!" John cried back.

He lay down in Sherlock's bed and sighed in relief.

Sherlock's bed was soft. And cool, like a summer breeze. And surprisingly the most comfortable bed John had ever lain in.

Sleepily he closed his eyes and fell asleep, only to be awoken a few hours later by an object touching his right arm.

The bed, not so cool anymore, seemed occupied by another person since John felt someone breathing in his neck.

"Sherlock."

"Hush, John, just go to sleep again."

Too tired to go into a further discussion, John sighed and fell back asleep...

Only to wake up in the morning with a Sherlock shaped object pressed against him.


	2. PTSD

**Author's notes:** Hello everyone sorry it took some time to write this and I know it isn't that long. (Never said this fanfic would be really really long but I'm still sorry for it.) My exams end on monday which means I'll finally have real free time to write instead of writing on my way to school!  
This chapter is corrected by the wonderful Lesley, alexandragracewinchester on Tumblr. Go check her out!

I hope you enjoy this chapter and please leave a review if you did! I'm really sorry about that thing with having no blanks spaces, it's irritating me so badly and I can't fix it ahhhh.

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Chapter 2

Tick tick tick...

He could still hear it. The ticking sound of the bomb strapped to him.

The sound of the swimming pool, the sound of Sherlock's soft gasp, the sound of Moriarty's laughter...

The sound of his heart beating faster than he thought was possible.

It was a different kind of fear than in Afghanistan.

This time he hadn't been ready for such an attack.

This time he had seen Sherlock's face filled with the slightest hints of concern and fear.

The detective never was afraid. Well, John hadn't seen him afraid at least, until the great game accident.

Of course he had talked about it with his therapist.

Jesus! It was a month ago. He should be over it by now.

But he hadn't been able to sleep properly ever since.

Every night was filled with endless screaming, the fear of dying, the fear of losing him..._losing Sherlock_.

That had been the worst. He couldn't care less that he was the one strapped to the bomb (rather him than Sherlock), but the idea of having to die and being separated from his best friend was absolutely the worst.

Every morning he had woke crying, covered in sweat, lip bitten because of the distress he was going through in his nightmares and filled with an empty feeling.

That empty feeling that Sherlock was missing from his side, thinking that there could have been something; that Sherlock maybe really is gone.

And every time he would carefully wipe away his tears, leave his room and search for Sherlock.

To find him in the sofa, his room, kitchen, downstairs with Mrs. Hudson...

But when he didn't find Sherlock he would panick, breathe quick and shallow breaths, the feeling of tears coming back.

He would rapidly call his friend asking where he was. He would receive an answer from Sherlock saying he would get home soon, that he just left for a case. Sherlock would bewildered and worried ask if John was ok, only to hear his blogger quietly say, "It's ok. Everything is fine."

_It's fine._

_Nothing was fine._

_This couldn't continue._

His therapist gave him sleeping pills.

He knew they wouldn't help. They don't help with fear of losing someone. They just bring you to sleep quicker to start the nightmares even faster.

Now one month later after the accident, Sherlock had left for a case. He wouldn't let John come with him yet, he told John he needed to get proper rest first and take a time off from the cases.

"I'll be back before you know it," Sherlock had said grabbing his coat and scarf. Winter was coming quickly.

John had just nodded and said his goodbyes to the curly-haired man.

And then he was alone again.

He had tried to watch a bit of crap telly and drink a few cups of green tea.

Then took a shower and dressed in his boxers and shirt, ready for bed.

Once he laid down under the cool sheets he had closed his eyes and sighed.

Soon enough, encouraged by the three green teas he had drunk, he fell asleep only to begin the tragedy again.

But this time was different.

Now Sherlock was the one with the bomb and John was too late to help him.

BOOM!

The loud noise of the bomb exploding trilled through his head, he jumped awake. Crying, shivering, sweating. He was having a mild fever.

"John?" A quiet but deep voice from his bedroom door asked.

John's gaze flickered to where the sound was coming and almost cried of happiness when he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway.

The detective came closer, obviously surprised to see the doctor like this.

He sat down on the side of the bed.

"John? You ok?" He asked concerned.

Suddenly John bursted into a new stream of tears, of relief maybe, he didn't know nor care.

Expecting that Sherlock would awkwardly go away he buried his head in his pillow.

A few seconds later he heard the ruffles of the sheets and the sound of someone taking off his shoes and laying next to him.

Carefully Sherlock took John by his shoulder and turned him to lay his head on Sherlock's chest.

The tall man stroked John's back and comforted him a bit.

"It's fine now John. I'm here. It was just a dream. It's ok."

And for the first time in a month it really was ok.


End file.
